As we enter our third week of confinement, I have to be honest and tell you we’re pretty sick of one another in this house. And so we had a virtual dinner party.
If this was the before time, I would have not stopped at the fifth rewrite of this morning’s post about the virtual dinner party we had on Saturday.
Tom lives to photograph. I’m nothing if I can’t untangle lives that went before us. I think for us both, Dead Horse Beach is a portrait of brutal carelessness, giving up its ghosts with each low tide. That it draws so many to it–Tom and me, for instance–in wonder of its past and what it teaches us today is a reason to celebrate all the ugliness strewn across the sand.
Food is the one elementary need we all have, feeding a comfort we can share, especially in troubled times. I finally remembered this and slapped myself out of isolation funk. Then I pulled a large bag of bones from the freezer to make beef stock.
It’s not hyperbolic to say the world shifted a little in having to contemplate the possibility that a recipe core to my identity, that was passed from one woman’s hand to another and then another could not be the total of its sum.
Over the years, Margie has given me a license to be who I really am. Her life has become my guide to being what she calls a “curious woman.”
We’ve won the lottery! We’re alive in the 21st century! We may be suffering through a possible coronavirus pandemic but at least it’s not the 13th century when the bubonic plague burned through the known world.
I began to receive advice about a half an hour after I posted about my sad sex life. Lots of commiseration, too. Here’s a sampling.
This post is the first installment of THE BROOKLYN ALMANAC, a weekly supplement to I Can’t Believe I Did This. It will feature stories by writers and photographers riffing off the borough of Brooklyn. Enjoy!